


With 98 Percent Certainty

by Bitenomnom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Crossdressing, Gen, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:26:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/pseuds/Bitenomnom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock just wants to catch a murdering artist's accomplice, sometimes John just wants to know what kind of food he can get Sherlock to eat, and sometimes the intersection of those two goals involves one or more of the involved parties in high heels.<br/>Okay, maybe that's just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With 98 Percent Certainty

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for the [August fanfic contest](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/tagged/contest) at [fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. The challenge was that the story had to involve a case or an experiment as the main plot point and include at least five of 31 various prompt lines (POV and tense of these could be altered). I decided to do both a case and an experiment, _and_ use all 31 lines, which are bolded throughout the entry. (Because I’m a glutton for punishment like that.)
> 
> I’m posting it exactly as it was when I entered it with one small exception: I later realized that I used “cookies”—eep. So I fixed that. However, I am a bit confused/conflicted…in the example of “peanut butter cookies,” are they still called cookies, or are they “peanut butter biscuits”? I left that particular one “cookies” since all the recipes I found on British sites named them as such, but please feel free to let me know if this (or anything else, for that matter) is incorrect.
> 
> This was tons of fun to do, and I hope you enjoy it!

I can say with 98 percent certainty, give or take 2 percent, that John has gone mental.

This is an unusual turn of events, considering that the accusations usually go the other way around, but I can think of no more suitable way to phrase it. 

John has always posed himself as rather simple and straightforward and _ordinary_ in nature, which is generally true in situations common to most people (I would say “day-to-day” situations, but I suspect that word means something very different to John and I than it does to most). He wears jumpers and he knows who the Prime Minister is and the most complicated meal he ever cooks comes from a box. 

The latter is, however, one of the primary sources of my theory about John’s mental instability. Or rather, my theory results from a very significant change to that fact.

In the past six days, John has cooked three different foods a day (four, on Tuesday; technically five, but the last was a pastry I found in the trash—horribly burnt; I could barely even discern whether it was filled with strawberry or cherry). I found this odd at first, but considered it may be a budding hobby. I made the mistake of encouraging it; better he make continual futile attempts at feeding me than take some woman to an expensive restaurant with the hope that in some either direct or abstract fashion this would result in the irritating amounts of physical contact that John seems to favor. Uncertain as to whether the physical contact is meant to result from the food or from the fact that it was expensive, but my hope is that it is the second of these, or else I have been accepting John’s latest attempts entirely incorrectly.

Most likely the case is the following: even if food were a sort of request for physical contact, that is not John’s intent, due to his immense discomfort with the idea of physical contact with males. Facts point to this recent development relating to John’s general obsession with ensuring I eat. It is equally likely he is practicing to impress his girlfriend (oh wait, she left him—a future girlfriend, then). Perhaps he views it as killing two birds with one stone, which surprisingly relates to a case I recently solved involving a rather persistent Peeping Tom and…well, you wouldn’t understand, would you? I’ll skip past it for now. Go read about it on John’s blog, I’m sure he tells it with more… _flair_ than I do.

It was interesting to see John in such an industrious mood and infinitely more rewarding to observe than his typing blog entries (frankly, a painful sight). It was interesting up until I found chicken inside a doughnut John practically forced down my throat this morning. Well: it was still interesting at that point, but in a markedly different fashion.

“What were you thinking?” I had asked him, coughing up the doughnut. I did not feel the least bit guilty about binning it.

“What about it don’t you like?” had been John’s answer, and he gave me that damned innocent smile. Let no one say John Watson is not a force to be reckoned with. I cannot begin to decipher his intent. I would say he did it to bother me, as some sort of revenge, but I have not been performing any particularly offensive experiments lately, nor have I been at my violin at what Mrs. Hudson considers an ungodly hour, nor have I committed any major social faux pas (in public, anyway, which is the only place John cares about; I can make as much an arse of myself as I like when it’s just us, with minimal ramifications). It is the sort of thing that _I_ might do to acquire some reaction (for amusement, in the case of boredom), a sort of innocent but nonetheless telling prank. Mycroft and I frequently played such games, in our younger days—well, I say “games.” **Behaving childishly was an art form to us, but like everything else it was a means to an end.** I imagine the same would apply to John: with no defined goal, there is no reason for him to act this way. John generally does not antagonize me without reason. He is not malicious, does not take particular joy in undue suffering, would not have held a grudge about some previous offense of mine for this long, and certainly is not bored. 

Ergo: John has gone mental.

His next attempt was subtler. I took the rather simple-looking miniature bread loaf that John had baked during the time I used to acquire a few case files from Lestrade, hoping the last baking incident had been a fluke, or perhaps that John had felt repentant after seeing my repulsion. John watched intently and smirked when I took a cautious bite. I imagine his smirk originated from my reaction to the bread: **something about it tasted not quite right**. I could not bring myself to spit it out, because John _did_ make it; he had clearly tried very hard and if he became too irritated by my behavior he would refuse to come along on my new case with me. But I could not hold back what must have looked like a somewhat sour expression.

“Huh,” said John, then, and, “Like it?” At the eagerness in his voice I felt compelled to take another bite (odd). In retrospect, perhaps I merely desired to perform a second test on the questionable nature of the bread.

“No,” I told him, “too much…” I couldn’t place what it was, so I waved my hand about and hoped he would get the idea. He would probably be aware of his error; his hand slipped when he added the salt, or something.

“Too much what?”

Oh, so he was going to make this as tedious and painful as possible. But I couldn’t identify what it was that had made the bread taste _off_. “Everything,” I finally settled for. “You know I don’t eat this much; why do you keep cooking?”

John, of course—obstinate John, who does manage to be rather unreadable when he sets his mind to it—responded with one of those stupidly charming lopsided grins that he probably uses to woo women into his bed. “It’s fun,” was all he told me. “Cooking, I mean.” I took another bite, and then another, as John’s maddeningly magnetic expression continued to occupy his face, and then realized what I was doing, and set the bread down.

The easiest way out of this discussion, which was becoming very frustrating, very quickly, was a subject change. “Lestrade needs help with a murder case,” I motioned to the files I’d just brought in. I read them on the way back; thankfully, none of the new data drastically changes the plans I have spent the past few days developing. I have been investigating the case off and on for a week (on my own, for the most part, while John pursues his baking hobby), and would have wrapped it up sooner, but this one is something of a waiting game. “I’m going to do some investigating this evening. I trust you’ll be coming along?” I don’t actually. I have already deduced what he will say, but there’s always the chance I can change his mind. I had been rather hoping he would accompany me, as my plans—my more optimistic plans, rather than the realistic ones I will probably have to put in action when he inevitably turns this down—include his presence as an integral part of the data collection.

He hesitated. “I was actually going to…”

“What?” I asked, “Make me another chicken-filled doughnut to not eat? Come, John. We have important work to do.”

“Do you really need me?”

Of course I do. I always need John. That’s the point of John, to always be there. “I really do.”

“For what?”

I was certain he would not come along if I told him, so I didn’t. 

So, fine, I thought at the time. John could continue making his strange foods and I could tell him what an exciting case he missed out on. “Fine,” I said, and turned on my heel. “I thought you would probably use this case as a means to search for your next date, but so be it.” John was less susceptible to my dramatic nature than anyone else, but I could tell he was bothered by the idea of me having the entire interesting case to myself already, let alone one that could possibly relate to his physical and romantic endeavors, so I turned and let my coat drift behind me as I picked up my bag of supplies and headed out the door while John stood agape. It was a bit earlier than I meant to go out, but that was the price of showing John what he was missing. Anyway, I probably don’t want to smell what he’s making right now.

Because right now, it is still an entire hour before I meant to enact my plan. My supplies are ready, but I cannot prepare yet. I expect it will be a somewhat uncomfortable arrangement, and anyway, if I show up too early I will draw rather more attention than is conducive to cornering a murderer and her accomplice, so—best to wait. In the meantime, I sit in the pub across the street from where my target will be and do a little research on my mobile. If John were here, he’d be ordering something, under the foolish impression that he’d actually have time to eat. (That would slow him down. I hate it when John eats too much before we do something important. Usually, though, I can manage to prevent it in some way or another.)

John really is missing out on a lovely case; I’m sure his readers would have loved to hear his overromanticized telling of it. I usually leave a note in the comments section of John’s entries that the readers can learn about the _facts_ I used to solve it on my own website, but my own view counter remains depressingly stationary. For some time, it had been rather active—when I, as John put it, “came back to life”—but that is another story entirely, and, in any case, should not be considered as a usable data point in the analysis of the traffic to The Science of Deduction.

I knew something about the victim of this case. He had been at uni around the same time as I was, had been in one of my chemistry courses. He was completely stupid—more than most people—but passed the class. I had reason to believe he and the professor met outside of class, for exactly the activities you’re no doubt thinking of—and by _reason to believe_ I mean _irrefutable proof_ —but he found out and successfully prevented me from contacting anyone about it, or at least did so temporarily and continued to provide incentive not to until it was no longer worth the effort.

I had thought that would be the end of my contact with him, but on one occasion one of my clients happened to suggest speaking to him (not the purpose of the case, but as a resource for locating an item). **I was sad to see in the phonebook that he still existed.** I’d rather been hoping he’d continue on in his path in chemistry and accidentally poison himself; given his utter incompetence, it didn’t seem unlikely that he would have at least gotten himself run over by the time I looked him up. 

Imagine my surprise and joy, then, when I found out that he was the victim of this murder. I suppose I ought not mention that—my joy, that is—to John. It will likely distress him. 

Then again, this entire case probably would, in some fashion. Lestrade said it one way: **it was a love of art that was taken too far**. I said it another: It was a foolish woman’s hatred of a completely vapid man with no sense of taste whatsoever taken to exactly the correct degree. 

Based on what I could see in the photos, the crime scene was exquisite, and I fully intend to have a look at it in person, even if the case is wrapped up tonight, which it very well may be. There seems to be a great deal of detail involved in her work, and there is no way a camera could capture all of it, let alone a photographer with no idea of what is important. No, this murderer is, in fact, an artist, and a thorough one. The details added to the scene are innumerable, and doubtless each tiny one has some sort of _personal_ meaning. (Murder committed for reasons relating to petty jealousy and self-righteous anger, so the killer would want her signature on it in some way. But this one was clever, and declined to leave any conclusive indication as to her identity. That didn’t mean I couldn’t identify her, but it was a very nice try and did keep me baffled for well over an hour. If I could see the actual scene, things would have gone more quickly, but Lestrade seemed loathe to take me, at least while Anderson was there.) While what the artist had intended to do had been successful the moment the man stopped breathing, she went further, spent hours and days arranging every fingernail and intestine just so. She clearly intended to tell a needlessly detailed story. Artists can be a strange sort. **Little things seem to matter an awful lot to them.** But then, little things do matter an awful lot. Artists are trained to _observe_. And John wonders how it is I play the violin with something more than mere technical skill. (He hasn’t wondered aloud, of course, but I can see the question on his face whenever he watches me play. And he always _watches_ , even if his eyes are closed. It’s…interesting.)

My mobile buzzes. Ah, John has texted me. No surprise there. 

_what are you doing?_

He _would_ want to know, wouldn’t he? Well, he won’t get much. Serves him right.

_Staking out, for now. Waiting. SH_

_and then?_

_Not sure. SH_

I am sure, actually. But John opted out of this case of his own free will, so he is getting no more than that.

_how long will you be?_

_Oh, an hour or six. SH_

_sherlock…_

I can practically hear the exasperated sigh.

_come on_

_stop doing that_

_sherlock, where are you?_

I roll my eyes and send one more text before I pocket my mobile.

_Don’t worry. SH_

In an hour, I’ll be heading across the street to attend something of an art premiere. The murderer will be there, possibly showcasing some of her…sculpture. (They will all think it’s clay and paint. No one suspects a very realistic hand is actually a hand at an art show.) It’s sort of a… “ _ladies only_ ” event, as the advertisement phrased it (unsurprising: all of this artist’s events have followed this trend, and apparently she is well-known enough to get away with it—the opening night is always for women only). Naturally, I have come prepared.

This is not the first time I have had to cross dress. I am told I make a rather striking woman. (Rather tall, too, but there’s no helping that but avoiding excessively high heels.)

Anyway, I won’t be the only man there. I am certain the murderer had an accomplice—a male accomplice—and he is part of my focus for tonight. He will certainly be there; artists love to see their work admired, and while he is not the artist, he provided enough assistance to have a vested interest in the project. I’ll capture him, or at least gather sufficient evidence to incriminate him (it shouldn’t be difficult); I have several possible techniques to employ depending on the situation—seduction, if possible (by far the easiest), more violent means if not. I have all the supplies I need. **There is nothing he can do to escape me. Not with this lipstick and that bag. Oh, and the tazer.** It is, essentially, a fool-proof plan. 

As the time of the show’s opening comes nearer, I make my way to the women’s restroom (after careful monitoring to make sure it is occupied by no one else). This will take some doing, but if I can get the basics of my disguise in place—the clothing, primarily—and place my old clothing in my overlarge handbag before anyone else comes in, no one will be the wiser. I shaved earlier, but will have to touch up in the stall, I suppose. I can then exit and apply any facial paint and makeup relatively undisturbed. Strangers are typically too polite to tell a woman that she is ugly, let alone accuse her of not being one.

I have a few other supplies in my bag besides the clothing and the weapons, but it seems they will be unnecessary. Probably good: I seem to have forgotten to acquire one of the main components. I glance at my phone once more. No further texts from John. Ah, well. No matter. 

There we go. Dress and all associated components successfully donned with no glaring problems. Learning how to put on the corset myself without a mirror was a pain the first time I did it years ago, but I’m rather more proficient now. (I don’t believe John even thought to ask the one time he happened to encounter me as I was brushing up on that skill and making sure I could still do it expeditiously enough for on-the-fly casework.) Most traffic through the restroom is brief, so anyone who may have spotted my feet while I changed in the stall is now gone. I exit the stall in order to use the restroom’s wide mirror for makeup application.

Mrs. Hudson was remarkably helpful in assisting me in choosing the appropriate colors not only for the outfit, but also for my makeup. I have no doubt I could have been reasonably successful on my own, but why not use a resource if you have it available? Mrs. Hudson was rather amused by the process and made several (sarcastic, I can only assume) comments about “the daughter she never had.” I reminded her earnestly that dressing as a woman did not actually make me one, a fact that she seemed to be forgetting time and again (old age? but for the most part she is mentally sound), which only appeared to further amuse her.

Cobalt blue is, apparently, my color. My dress begins with that on the top and tapers to nearly black on the bottom, fairly plain in design but adorned with a tasteful swathe of rhinestones across the front. A necklace complimenting that pattern distracts from my Adam’s apple and matching bracelets from my wrists; the sleeves of the dress extend just far enough to mask the most prominent of the muscle in my shoulders and upper arms. In the stall I slicked my hair down and applied the wig, and now I arrange it appropriately. Long hair, in my natural dark color, very loose curls. I can easily lay it in such a way that it minimizes the prominence of my jaw and cheekbones. Makeup: Mrs. Hudson taught me how to use it to make my face appear plumper. No blush: no need to draw attention to my cheeks. My eyes and lips, according to Mrs. Hudson, are the easiest. She selected the appropriate blue for my eyes and I impressed her with my pre-existing knowledge of mascara application. My lips, as I have been told on many occasions, are quite sufficient and attractive. (John stares. He thinks I think he’s spacing off, or looking at my mouth to focus on my words. I have been loathe to point out to him that the longer I spend speaking, the wider open his mouth drops and the more frequently he licks his own lips. He will doubtless grow self-conscious and stop doing it, which would certainly be a shame. It is interesting.) They require little work and only a coating of colored gloss. My shoes are as short as they can be while still possessing a level of formality appropriate to the occasion. Close-toed and similarly adorned with a tasteful rhinestone pattern.

I am soon all set, and in good time. I arrange the hair on my wig for a few extra minutes; best to be fashionably late. The larger the crowd already present is, the less likely I am to stand out. I shake my shoulders a bit to ensure that my various undergarments remain in place and that the breast-shaped silicone does not shift significantly. The dress suffices to hide that they are fake—its neckline is some sort of fashionable high cut. 

I exit the restroom with a practiced strut. This is, in fact, the most important part of the disguise. I have found countless times that acting as if one belongs in one’s current station, surrounding parties will assume it to be true. I walk as if I truly believe I am female, and so it is. My bag is large, in order to hold all my supplies, but it will not be unusual enough to be noticed. I tuck it under my arm as I leave the restaurant. No one seems to notice that the fellow who left his table is the lady opening the door, not that I would expect them to. It is a level of ignorance typical to ordinary people. 

The building housing the gallery is already bustling with activity, so entering is no trouble. I wave to several women as if I know them; they wave back, certainly feeling all the more foolish for not remembering me. But now it is time to begin investigating. I will start with the art while the murderer and her accomplice become comfortable and, with any luck, do so with the assistance of alcohol.

One sculpture is obviously skin (from the thighs, I would suppose) wrapped around a fragment of the ribcage. It is for sale: 4200 pounds. 

“ **I still can’t believe you get paid for things like this** ,” says a nearby voice to someone several feet away from me. The speaker is almost certainly not female, but definitely trying—just not well-practiced. For my part, I am attempting to remain as quiet as possible; my voice is difficult to make sound appropriately feminine. I have found that pretending to have a cold helps. I turn slightly to glimpse the person who had spoken—ah. That must be the accomplice.

“Oh, Leah,” giggled the other. She is the murderer; there is no doubt about that. Lestrade had audio recordings of her. I convinced him that if he allowed her to believe herself uncaught for several nights more, I could help him apprehend the accomplice as well, and with more than enough evidence to ensure they receive their just desserts. (Not that they didn’t do the world a favor by ridding it of that _moron_ —but if nothing else, John will very much like to hear that they got what’s coming to them.)

I linger to look at the body parts for a while longer. They are actually very interesting: if I could, I would ask what she used to preserve the skin—maybe once she is in custody. John would give me another of those withering stares. Asking a murderer about her dermis preservation technique is almost definitely “not good.”

My phone buzzes from my bag, and I retrieve it. A text from John (no surprise there).

_ok, am starting to worry. seriously, where are you? are you ok?_

Oh, John. It hasn’t even been two hours. 

_Fine. SH_

For good measure, I send him a photograph of the next sculpture down the line.

_is that a femur?_

_It is. SH_

_where did you get it?_

_It’s Mycroft’s. **He gave me it just before he died.** Or rather, just before I killed him. SH_

_SHERLOCK_

_sherlock you had better_

_thats not funny_

_sherlock?_

_John, don’t be ridiculous. I’m only kidding. SH_

_good_

_so you got it from…?_

_It’s the murder victim’s. SH_

_oh, ok_

_almost done? with whatever youre doing? looking at bones?_

_Depends on how seductive I can manage to be, I expect. SH_

_Ok_

_wait what?_

_sherlock?_

I smirk and tuck the mobile away.

Of course, I’m not to the point yet where I will be employing that particular technique. I haven’t been here long enough to give it a try, haven’t browsed about enough. It’s been perhaps half an hour since I arrived; forty-five minutes since the exhibit opened.

From here, I can learn a little more about how exactly the victim was murdered. My being able to leisurely count up the ways the killer mutilated his body afterward certainly won’t help her, either. I had been hoping John might present that part of the data, though; as he has pointed out a number of times, while he speaks of such things with feeling and disgust, I tend to sound more curious and interested. (Because he _is_ disgusted, and I _am_ curious.) People would feel much more comfortable with his approach.

This particular murderer is bold: she had taken photographs of herself just after the murder. To any ordinary onlooker, unaware of the realness of her crimes, she appears to have simply embraced the grotesque nature of her work by splattering red paint over herself. I lean in closer to get a better view of the print. **She is quite the sight with her long blonde hair and perfect nails dripping blood.** (And it is _definitely_ blood.)

My mobile buzzes again, and I ignore it. Doubtless John is wondering what he’s missing. He is regretting staying behind to make a…basil-stuffed cupcake or whipped cream stew or whatever he is at now. Between my previous allusion to exposure to dating material and my most recent text to him, he is likely dying of curiosity.

As I move on to the next photograph in the line (much cleverer than the last, at least; the artist has smartly placed brushes and paints around her work area) I begin to wonder whether I can wrap this up a bit more quickly and get a bit of rest. I am beginning to feel…sluggish. No, that’s not right. I slept only 21 hours ago. Have I been drugged? Impossible. I have consumed none of the hors d’oeuvres, none of the punch. I would have noticed any other attempts to administer a drug, or else would notice symptoms in other visitors to the exhibit.

In this photograph, it is painfully apparent that the accomplice was the one holding the camera. You can see from his shadow and the small corner of his sleeve that made its way into the frame, and the shoes sitting in the background. (Height from which photograph was taken matches up with height of previously glimpsed “Leah” once high heels are subtracted.) It may not even be the case that the accomplice _was_ the accomplice; he could have been the originator of the idea, and used the woman who performed the act and did the art as something of a puppet. In that case, he had almost managed to avoid catching anyone’s attention. **Blame was the key. He needed to unlock the door and place it with someone.** If he believed he could convince this woman to unknowingly take it, no doubt he would have taken advantage of such an opportunity. But that is something yet to be discovered—hopefully, I will find the answer tonight.

…Odd. Perhaps it is not that I am exhausted, but that I am ill. My skin has begun to prickle, reddish—a shame, as its usual smooth tone lends itself well to the femininity I need to project—and my stomach is beginning to twist about uncomfortably. Last time it did this was one of the few times I made the mistake of becoming rather too drunk for rather too long. I very much hope I do not continue along that path. Perhaps caution is in order: I glide through the crowd in the direction of the restroom to observe one of the installations nearby. These are actually the finger bones of the victim, but they have been drilled through and cut into smaller pieces, yielding the appearance of beads, dangling from strings attached to a fixture on the ceiling.

A pounding in my head completely unrelated to the sort of distress that would be caused to anyone else present if they found out about the true nature of these pieces suddenly shifts from ignorable to very much not, and I am no longer certain I can safely keep my balance on these shoes while also maintaining a feminine carriage. My skin is hot. I do my best to hold my posture as I enter the restroom and lock myself into a stall and text John.

_I think I’m ill. SH_

_symptoms? where are you?_

I begin typing and another message appears before I can finish my message, which, admittedly, is taking longer than usual. That mostly has to do with the fact that looking at my mobile’s screen is making me dizzy.

_please, sherlock_

My fingers can barely manage to hit the correct letters. Well, John will get the idea.

_headache uneasy stomach redness in skinitchy skin light snsetivty sh_

I heave into the toilet and add,

_throwing up_

where are you? __

It takes me longer to respond as a few failed attempts to remove what little food I’ve eaten in the past hours from my body impede my progress.

_17 carltn house terrace please soon am at toilet come in side door or window dont be seen_

_ok, already in cab, i will be there soon. hang in there._

_womens_

_what?_

_w toilet_

If he inquires further, I don’t know it. I slump against the back of the toilet and black creeps over my vision.

 

***

 

I can’t say that Sherlock is entirely wrong when he refers to me as a simple man. Sometimes I am.

But sometimes a bloke just wants to know what his flatmate’s sodding favorite food is, and sometimes that bloke’s flatmate is an irritating git who goes to every effort possible to appear not to eat, _ever_ , or enjoy eating, _ever_. So sometimes said bloke has to go to particular measures that would normally only be the sort of thing his flatmate does in order to gather this data.

So.

Okay, I admit it.

I was experimenting on Sherlock.

Is it so ridiculous, to want to know whether Sherlock has an opinion on strawberries? I certainly didn’t think so, but Sherlock did, and so he absolutely refused to answer anything I asked him about foods he liked. The only solution was a more indirect approach, and I’m sure Sherlock would agree with me. 

So I started cooking. And watching Sherlock eat. And waiting. Eventually, something would make him smile. Or, you know, stop complaining for half a second and actually eat the entire damned dish.

It would just be a lot easier to get Sherlock to eat a proper amount of food if I knew what he likes. I could start tempting him to eat an adequate amount of protein. He must keep deleting the fact that _he needs it_ —especially for that “hard drive” of his he relies on so much. Or even, honestly, anything else. If Sherlock could eat one solid meal and spend the rest of the day having even occasional snacks, it would be a victory. I wonder how many thirty-seven-year-olds need a babysitter. At least one, obviously. I feel like I’m becoming Mycroft. Except, of course, I haven’t installed cameras in the flat to watch Sherlock eat. I’m also not his brother. (Thank god.)

Sherlock seems to fail to understand why eating is important. I tried confronting him once, when he was on a case for three days and refused to eat on any of them. “Sherlock,” I’d pulled him aside as we caught our breath after a (futile, and guess whose fault that was—give you a hint, not mine) chase after a suspect. Sherlock was clearly dizzy and lacking in energy and even more irritable than usual and all those other things that tend to, you know, come with not eating enough. “ **For once, would please sit down and listen to me?! It isn’t rocket science… Well, not exactly.** I guess technically both involve fuel consumption. But for how little you seem to know about taking care of yourself, it may as well be rocket science.” Sherlock grumbled and groaned. “It’s your _health_.” I could tell that he was more than a little pissed off at me for explaining how digestion works since he obviously understands it in theory.

And things like this are why I need to figure out how to feed Sherlock. (Like he’s some sort of a pet. I’ll write a book. “What to Feed Your Sherlock When He’s Being an Obstinate Git.”)

I am letting this latest attempt of mine bake while I work on writing up one of our recent cases. I’m calling it “Two Birds with One Stone”—Sherlock’s suggestion, oddly. (He usually disapproves so much of my fantastic titles, especially the ones involving puns.) It’s absolutely unbelievable how he managed to solve it, which I’m sure he’ll detail on his website much better than I ever could. I’ll stick to just the more interesting bits. I had, though, asked Sherlock to relay to me a few of the details that I’d missed so that I could include them, and he composed a list of a number of them. **It was more than I wanted and that was good.** It also made several of the conclusions he reached make a lot more sense. 

Everyone seems to prefer being able to follow Sherlock’s deductions, rather than just seeing that they happened—that and the more “human” aspects of Sherlock’s behavior probably account for the subjects of most of the comments and compliments I receive. (It was on this case I found out that Sherlock actually hates almost all types of bread—well, according to him. It was part of what gave me the idea of seeing what he _liked_. He did eat quite a bit of the small loaf I made him this afternoon, but didn’t seem to like it, although that could have been for other reasons.) 

The first time I made some food to see if Sherlock liked it—something simple, just some peanut butter cookies—I told him that they were for Mrs. Hudson and asked him to sample one. **His reaction to such a reasonable request left me agog.** (Not that that’s out of the ordinary, with Sherlock.) He actually _slapped_ the tray out of my hands. I’ve tested it since, and it’s not peanut butter he reacts to strongly, nor is it biscuits, so I’m at a bit of a loss and still working on that one.

What I’m making right now is something a little different. I had put a lot of ground mustard into the bread this afternoon, just to see how Sherlock reacted (I think he was confused, primarily), and so I am trying a similar approach this time, except I’m making sort of a bizarre fish and chips casserole recipe I stumbled across. I’ve run out of recipes from Mrs. Hudson (who seemed to get a laugh out of me asking for them and said something I couldn’t make sense of about Sherlock), so I’ve moved on to the internet. It always struck me as odd that Sherlock doesn’t like cooking; it seems right up his street. It’s half chemistry, half art and ingenuity. Well, at least, the sort of things I imagine Sherlock cooking would be. I’m not sure there’s any art involved in fish and chips casserole.

Sherlock, meanwhile, has been off solving some mad case that somehow involves women I’d want to date and seducing people, and admittedly I’m regretting not going along. For starters, if Sherlock is right now in a room full of attractive women with no idea what to do with them while I am here typing about the eating habits of the victims of our last case, I might just throw my laptop across the room. And, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but _Christ_ do I want to see what Sherlock means by ‘seducing people.’ It could be…interesting. I mean, for…yeah. Just. It would be interesting. Obviously he wouldn’t do anything with them afterward; he’s Sherlock after all, and besides, he probably knows I’d…well. It would be disconcerting, just as the ordeal with Irene was. I don’t know how I’d react, but probably in about the same way. It’s _Sherlock_. He’s _mi_ —my flatmate. Not that I have any say in what he does with—but—

My phone beeps. Text from Sherlock. Probably mocking me about what a fantastic time he’s having without me. I know he’s bitter that I decided to hang behind this time. I think he’d understand if he knew it was for an experiment; and anyway, I had no way of knowing it would be any different than last week when Sherlock pulled me away from some important research about allergens for an urgent chase, only to find that the case actually revolved around the client losing her handbag in a theater. (Which, let me tell you, had Sherlock _livid_. The handbag was very easy to find. He was threatening to shoot the wall again within about five minutes of getting home.) I check the text. This had better not be another body part.

_I think I’m ill. SH_

Oh. Oh, god. Even when Sherlock actually _is_ ill, he doesn’t admit it until I physically steer him to his bed and all but force cough syrup down his throat. I can feel my chest begin to pound in panic.

_symptoms? where are you?_

Shit, Christ, it’s taking him too long to respond. Has something happened? God, please tell me he’s still okay. Or is he tricking me? No, surely not. Still no answer, still no answer. I’ll text him again. If this is a _joke…_

_please, sherlock_

A response finally comes back, to my relief. The number of typos, though, only serve to sink the pit of my stomach farther. Sherlock not being better than everyone else by typing nice and proper and capitalized texts? This is _not_ good.

_headache un easy stomach redness in skinitchy skin light snsetivty sh_

_throwing up_

I type a response up quickly. I have no idea what’s wrong with him, but it doesn’t matter as I expect I’d need to get there soon even if I did know. 

_where are you?_

I pocket my mobile and dash up the stairs to find my medical kit bag. It’s a bit bulky, but I don’t know what’s wrong, and I need to leave _now_. I tuck my gun into the back of my trousers, just to be safe—he _is_ on a case—and pull a jacket on over. 

“Are you going to find Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson opens her door just as I pass.

“Yeah,” I breathe heavily from the dashing about and from the panic, “something’s gone wrong.” Someone could have poisoned him, someone could have drugged him.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Hudson fidgets. “I hope it doesn’t have to do with his missing these. Can you give them to him?” She holds out a pair of high heels. I seriously doubt lacking high heels is the source of Sherlock’s problem right now. Must be some of the evidence. Is this some sort of Cinderella crime, where Sherlock was going to try to fit the shoes to one of the women at wherever he is? I think about it as I grab the shoes and stuff them into the empty space in my medical kit and try to hail a cab. He was going to take these shoes Lestrade must have given him from the crime scene, or something, play the handsome prince, as it were, and see if they fit one of the people there? Except instead of being a princess, the person the shoe fits is actually a murderer. Well, that will make a great story to blog about. You know, if Sherlock survives. Oh, god, of course he’s going to survive. He has to. He really, really cannot die again. I almost trip over my own feet at the thought. Not good, not good, not good…

By the time Sherlock finally responds, a cab is pulling up to take me. 

_17 carltn house terrace please soon am at toilet come in side door r window dont be seen_

I climb in and give the driver the address. Isn’t that the Mall Galleries? ‘Don’t be seen?’ Well, I can do that. Okay. I can sneak in. I’ve been there before, I can find a window near the restrooms.

_ok, already in cab, i will be there soon. hang in there._

Another text.

_womens_

_what?_

What the _hell_ does he mean? 

_w toilet_

W toilet. Women’s toilet? He’s in the women’s restroom heaving his guts out? Lovely. Brilliant. That’s reassuring. He feels so awful that he couldn’t take a few extra steps to the men’s. (Or he was in there seduci—no, surely not. Surely not. I hope not. Not that—I mean, good for him, but—but I really hope not.)

When the cab finally arrives, I pay the driver a bit more than the fare for being a good sport and hurrying along. I creep around the building. Oh: it’s some sort of “girl’s night out” event (odd, I wouldn’t expect something like that of a gallery, this gal must be quite famous), that’s why Sherlock was trying to hide and wants me not to be seen. (Though the women’s restroom was a poor choice of hiding place for him…Sherlock, Sherlock…)

As I pass the main entrance, as casually as possible, I stroll by a few lovely looking female artist types loitering outside, roaring with laughter, probably having just visited. **Their ebullient spirits are possibly a result of a medication that was not over-the-counter.** At least, I don’t recall art galleries ever making me _quite_ that happy. One pats the other on the back. “Leah, we did great,” she says. Leah (I assume) is…well, stunning. All right. I can see what Sherlock meant. He knew I’d have wanted to come here.

As soon as I pass from their view, I break into a sprint. There, this window, I remember, is actually part of a hallway right beside the restrooms. It’s open to let in the cool evening air, so climbing through is easy. I possibly have slightly too much practice breaking and entering as a direct influence of Sherlock’s, er, methods.

The hallway is blessedly unoccupied and after listening to the door for a moment to make sure I won’t encounter any surprises, I slip into the women’s restroom. Sherlock would probably be in a stall, but all are empty but one, and in that one is a lady with a pair of blue heels. Did I get something wrong? The address? Is there more than one restroom? Was this not what he meant by “w toilet”?

“Sherlock?” I whisper urgently, but, of course, there’s no response. Then, I get a fantastic idea, and pull out my mobile and send a text.

_sherlock are you here?_

I hear a buzz several seconds later from the stall with the blue-shoed lady. Oh god—is he—did he—but how would he _do that_ in a toilet stall without any part of him showing through the bottom?

“Sherlock?” I ask more loudly.

“Shirley,” croaks a voice. Croaks a voice from Blue Shoes’ stall. Croaks a rather deep voice from—a rather familiar voice from—

Ah, sod it all. I walk over to the stall and duck my head under the open gap.

Ah—uh.

Uh—

Oh.

**I stare, unable to grasp exactly what I am seeing.**

“Sherlock?” We have always been very different people. **I notice the contrast now more than ever.**

“Shirley,” he says. Which suddenly makes a lot more sense than it did the first time.

Because Sherlock is dressed as a woman.

I regret to say that for a second I hesitate. I mean, Sherlock is clearly alive, so, okay, good, not bleeding to death, nothing devastatingly urgent, so I can afford a second to…a second to…you know. Oh god. Sherlock is. I mean. It’s not that he’s dressed up as, well. Because. That’s fine. It’s all fine. But it’s more that he’s—I mean. God. Wow.

“Stop gawking,” Sherlock slurs, “Jawn.” He enunciates my name as if is onomatopoeia for “gawk,” though that may just be the effect whatever has made him so…well, so miserable…on his speech. At the very least, it prompts me to start looking over his symptoms.

“Did you eat anything here?”

“No.”

“Drink anything?”

“No.”

“Before this?”

“Just your _awful_ bread, _Jawn._ ” “Awful” and “John” are now onomatopoeia, too. Great.

“Well, that was hours ago.”

Oh. Wait. My research I had been doing when we got pulled away to find that old lady’s purse.

“I have an idea.”

Sherlock raises a fatigued eyebrow at me. He is wearing a wig of long, wavy hair. Somehow his face looks softer. His eyes are bluer. It’s…alarming. Yes, that’s it. Alarming. Is the word for. That. That thing that he is right now. Ama—alarming.

“Delayed allergic reaction to a food,” I explain, digging through my bag and trying very hard not to figure out where Sherlock got a dress that fit him like… Well. Like that. I mean. I guess I haven’t seen that many blokes wear a dress. It works better than I thought. Though I think…he’s also wearing…stuff underneath. Somehow I can still more or less think and speak. I mean, of course I can more or less think and speak. Why wouldn’t I be able to? Of course I can. “Lots of people have sensitivities to food with delayed reactions and never notice it. Maybe you do, too.” I’ve got an EpiPen in the kit. There are only about a hundred different symptoms of allergic reactions, so I can’t know for sure, but it seems the most likely thing. “We’ll see if this helps.”

Sherlock nods, and looks like he’s ready to be sick again. “Go ahead,” he says.

Oh. Right. I had forgotten… “I have to…it goes into your thigh.”

He nods again. 

“Er, right.” Well, okay. I’m a doctor, and all that. And Sherlock is my flatmate. I just never thought I’d be hiking up Sherlock’s dress to inject his thigh for an allergy to mustard-bread that I made for him as part of an experiment because he had a reaction to it at an art show of the body parts of a murder victim.

I might leave some bits of this out of the blog entry about it. Nobody else needs to know how creamy-white Sherlock’s thigh is or the fact that he completely committed to this whole cross dressing thing by wearing lacy pants. Nobody else needs to know that I accidentally whimpered a bit at…well, I don’t know, it was probably for a perfectly reasonable reason, but nobody needs to know that I accidentally whimpered.

“You, uh, didn’t tell me. That you were, uh…” I say as I pull the pen back.

Sherlock stirs, seems more awake already. “Dressing as a woman? **What were you expecting, an open invitation?** ‘Come one, come all, watch a man put on a dress because nobody has ever seen _that_ before?’” He sits up a little. 

I can’t hold in a snort of laughter. “True enough. **You can’t just say things like that and then disappear for the rest of the day!** ”

“Yes, rather more difficult to blend in.”

“Speaking of blending in,” I start. “Uh, you had been planning on bringing me along. Did you have a different idea originally, or—because, you know, I definitely _wouldn’t_ blend in here.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock begins digging through his bag. “I brought a disguise for you, too.”

Oh.

Oh. I see.

“You have the missing piece, in fact. I just saw it in your medical bag. Surely you wondered why Mrs. Hudson handed you a pair of high heels in your size?”

“My…” Oh. They _are_ my size. Sherlock takes one out and slips it onto my foot.

This is _not_ happening.

“You see? I measured your feet while you were sleeping and compared it against several previous samples I’d taken of your prints. You’ll be glad to know you leave very consistent footprints, John.”

That’s not creepy at all. “Right.” 

“They would look very good on you, I’m sure.”

Okay. Sherlock is… **He is the cleverest person I have ever met, but seems to be malfunctioning in some way.** I wouldn’t maintain that Sherlock sticks to or is even more than vaguely aware of normal flatmate behavior, but I’m sure he knows that that is not the sort of thing you say to. Well. Mostly any man, ever, about high heels. Mostly. And anyway, Sherlock is not really a complimenting people sort of person. Well, people besides brilliant serial killers, I mean.

“So you were planning on, what, dressing me as a woman too?”

Sherlock yanks a grey-blue dress from his rather large handbag, followed by, er, the associated undergarments. “Yes.”

“I don’t think I would make a very convincing woman, Sherlock.”

Sherlock seems to think about it and I am about a hundred percent certain that whatever comes out of his mouth, I am not going to like it. “I suppose that’s true,” he says, which is not at all what I was expecting. **You would have thought that would make it all better. But it didn’t.** It was just—well. He did look rather—surprisingly—not that bad in some of those things. And I was kind of—well. No matter.

“I mean,” Sherlock continues, “it would have been better if I could have actually tried putting everything on you before bringing it along, but I thought you would protest.”

“So you figured you’d just spring it on me.”

“Yes. That method tends to work.”

“Right.”

“I understand that many men have a problem with dressing in women’s clothing.”

“Well, good…uh, well perceived. That’s true.”

“Yourself included.”

“Well. Yes.”

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to give it a try and go back out there with me?”

“Sherlock—” he opens his mouth with that _I’m-correcting-you_ face, because he wants me to call him _Shirley_ , but fuck that, I mean, not that, I mean _forget that_ , “ _Sherlock_ , look, I am not saying I’m the most masculine man in London, but I definitely would _not_ make a very convincing woman.”

“You’d be surprised at how unwilling people are to point that out to you.”

“Oh, good, so they’ll just give me funny looks.”

Sherlock stands and I back up so that he can leave the stall. He even has this stupid…swaying-hips…swaying…everything… _sashay_ thing that he can do. He turns the lock to the restroom. Good idea—imagine if someone else had waltzed in. God. “People are afraid of confrontation. They don’t want to offend you, just in case they’re wrong. And, of course, if they’re right, it’s statistically more likely than not that you can beat them in a fight.”

Oh, god. “Not good, Sherlock.”

“So will you do it?” I swear the makeup he’s wearing on his face makes his eyes _shinier_. They’re rather…uh…pretty. Can I say that? I shouldn’t say that. They look…hopeful. Pleading. “Please?” 

Oh, Sherlock. Jesus Christ. 

**If there was ever a time to seize the day, now is that time.**

“If I do it, will you tell me your favorite food?”

Sherlock considers this. He seems one part baffled as to why I would care, one part suddenly aware of the reason for my recent interest in cooking, and one part amused that we are making this bargain. Then that damned smug look slides over his face—the one for when he’s got an idea, and he’s very proud of it. “Very well. But not until we get back to 221B.”

I admit that I was sort of hoping he would say no, but really, he has nothing to lose in that bargain. All he has to do is say “escargot, John, _obviously_ ” and _I_ have to put on a sodding _dress_. But…I offered, and he agreed to it, and I always keep my word. So.

“So tell me about this case,” I prompt him. That’s a much more comfortable topic of conversation.

Sherlock pulls up his bag and seems insistent on fixing up his makeup. He straightens out his dress as he faces the mirror. “Last week, a man was killed and disassembled, made into a number of pieces of ‘art’ that you will see outside, much like the one I texted a photograph of to you. Lestrade was aware of the identity of the murderer, but I convinced him to wait because I could also identify the accomplice and gather more data to ensure their incarceration was appropriately lengthy. It was actually the murderer’s fault I thought of the idea of an accomplice at all—one of her neighbors mentioned her chatting with some other fellow about rather incriminating things _constantly_. **It was as if she didn’t understand the concept of ‘shut up.’** ”

“Okay, and that’s what you were here doing?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock walks back to the stall and returns with some of the items he’d taken out of his bag. “Now John, put on the dress.”

Since I’m currently taking my clothes off (locked in a restroom at an art show with my flatmate, god), humor seems like a good approach to diffuse the, uh, tension. Which there is definitely a lot of. Around. For me, anyway. Sherlock’s immune to that sort of thing. “If I had a fiver for every time I’d heard that one…” 

Sherlock smirks. “You could take me out for half a dinner?”

I apparently can’t think, because I blurt out, “You want me to take you out for dinner?”

At which point Sherlock seems to realize something, because he clams up, too, and we’re sort of both standing there and I realize that I actually have to ask Sherlock to lace up a corset for me. Sherlock had better have a damned interesting favorite food. (And a damned nutritional one. And cheap. Essentially his favorite food had better be something that I can force down his smartarse throat on a regular basis because that is the _only_ way that this will be worth it.)

“So who were you seducing?”

“The accomplice.”

“So she’s definitely here?”

“He.”

Oh. He? “Is he also…”

“Dressed up? Yes.”

“So…you, a man dressed as a woman, were going to try to seduce another man, also dressed as a woman, who is into women?”

“Close. In fact, he is into men dressed as women.”

Oh, _now_ it all makes sense. Sherlock, you are an _arse_. “So that’s why you wanted me here. Because I’d obviously be…” A man dressed as a woman. Of course.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees a bit too quickly, “that’s why. But in a pinch, I figured I can appear as a woman to everyone _but_ him, if I could corner him. The end goal isn’t actually him, but rather the act of making contact with him—making an impression on him—and then goading him into doing something stupid and telling by either interacting with the murderer or by generally ignoring him.” He squints at me. “Is something wrong, John?”

“Oh, nothing,” I roll my eyes, “just thinking of how lovely I’ll feel being ogled by the creepy accomplice of a vicious murderer.”

“Ogling men dressed as women doesn’t make people creepy,” Sherlock argues.

Well, right. Of course. I mean. I hope it doesn’t, because I…I mean, god, no, wait, hold on, I didn’t sign up for this. “But helping murder somebody and making his dead body into sculptures sort of does, don’t you think?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

As if he hadn’t realized what I meant by my original statement. “So, either way, there’ll be some guy slobbering over, uh, me.” Yeah, that’s not a weird thought.

“Yes,” Sherlock says through his teeth, and he pulls the strings on the corset a little tight before tying them. “So. **Before we can make any progress we will have to get past that slobbering hound.** ”

“Hound?”

Sherlock shakes his head a little, as if just realizing he had used the word. “Accomplice. Slobbe—being—attracted to you. We get his attention…”

“And then?”

He motions for me to face him and begins applying makeup. Okay, who taught him this? Did he look it up online?

“He meets you, then you go on and flirt with the murderer. He’s an accomplice for a reason—they were having an affair before she murdered her boyfriend. He perceives, whether correctly or not, that you are only here to get into her bed, and gets jealous. Eventually, he will do something stupid.”

“Are you sure?”

“If that doesn’t work, we can use less subtle measures. You brought your gun?”

“Yeah. Which one is the murderer?” I had seen some of them on my way in; perhaps I had glimpsed her.

“Burgundy dress, blonde hair to the middle of her back…”

“ **Wait, are you talking about the girl with the lazy eye?** ”

“What? No! _She_ was clearly right-handed; the murderer is left-handed.” He sighs. “I’ll point her out to you when we get out there.”

“And the accomplice? How’s he dressed?”

“Black gown, rather convincing figure. Red hair, up in curls, bit handsy. You’ll almost certainly see him near the murderer.”

That was. Oh. That was “Leah.” 

Well, now I feel a bit stupid. I guess he knows what he’s doing, or else I just have really bad judgment. Or, I mean, not that it’s _bad_ to stare at…as Sherlock just said…but…I thought…anyway. We’ll just go with ‘the accomplice obviously knows what he’s doing.’

Sherlock apparently knows what he’s doing, too. I’ll never do this again, and I’d definitely never get a date like this, but somehow Sherlock has actually disguised me a lot more convincingly than I would have thought possible. I mean, my manly features still very much show through. But. Less.

“Surprised?” Sherlock asks me.

“Do you do this often?”

“Not very, but I had to do it about seven years back for a case involving a female model, so you can imagine that I had to make it good.”

“I think I prefer you in suits,” I say. Oh god. My brain is not working. My brain is not working.

“Do you?” He’s onto me. His eyes do that thing where they narrow while he calculates. He probably doesn’t know it, but this sort of smooth smirk slides up behind his features afterward, when he probably thinks they’re still neutral, analytical. He’s awfully smug about something, and god, I know what. He’s figured me out. He’s…I mean…I haven’t figured me out. But. He has. Somehow. “Why?” he asks.

“Because they’re—now hold on, this is a trick question.”

“Why ever would it be a trick question?”

“Because you want me to compliment your arse or something!”

“Is it not worth complimenting?”

“Of course it is—I mean—Sherlock, you are…completely, sodding…”

“I don’t think I am, John.”

When did he get this close? He’s awfully close. He gives me this significant stare with his bea—with his strange blue eyes, just letting all this… _tension_ …climb up around us. 

**Without warning, he turns, opens his mouth, and starts to sing.**

I guess it was too much for him, too, then, although his voice doesn’t really sound panicked. Actually, I’m quite certain he’s mocking me. Well, fine. Better than…whatever we were doing just before that. I am sure anyone trying to get into the restroom right now is very confused. 

“Sherlock, stop it,” I finally say. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock holds up his mobile and plays back his singing. “Testing the recorder to make sure it will be able to catch the inevitable accidental confession.”

“Oh.” For when we provoke the accomplice. That’s quite reasonable. Wait. “How much of that were you recording? Just now?”

“Not important,” he waves me off, “it works, and that’s what matters.”

Well, that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. 

“Are you ready?”

“Of course I am,” I say. Yes, because it’s definitely possible to be ready for…this. Looking like…this. With Sherlock all…yeah. 

Sherlock leans in close again. “John, you really do look rather good.”

“I don’t think so,” I feel red creeping up over me. My skin feels hot and itchy, and I know it’s not a delayed allergic reaction because it’s accompanied by various other things that don’t usually happen with allergic reactions.

“No?”

“ **Even if you prove me wrong, I will never agree with you.** ” I won’t. I mean, I really really don’t make an attractive woman, and that’s okay.

He seems to consider it. Oh god, I hope that didn’t come across as a challenge. “I don’t mean that you look like a woman, I just mean that…I chose your clothing well.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what that means, besides Sherlock is full of himself as always. Still red, though.

“And,” now I am pretty sure his mouth is actually touching my ear, “for the record, I prefer you the way you looked approximately twelve minutes ago. Just before I handed you your disguise.”

Ah—uh—oh. In my…just in my pants. Yes. Okay. That’s…well that’s not normal flatmate behavior at all, but I think that point sort of came and went a while ago.

I put the shoes on. I feel like Sherlock is about to make a remark about my height, but by some miracle of miracles, he holds back. “Sodding heels,” I mutter. I don’t see how women can do it. I don’t see how Sherlock can do it. 

“Do I sense a sudden respect for my talents?” Sherlock does his _sashaying_ thing, and he sounds like just about the most pompous arsehole you can imagine.

“ **Respect? Respect _this_ …**” my fists ball up and I grab one of the shoes from my feet and throw it at him. He ducks it and it sort of, um, snaps against the wall. The heel swings off of the body of the shoe.

Sherlock picks it up and gives it a once-over. “Well done, John. Really.” 

…Which is how I ended up exiting the restroom with one shoe fixed up with adhesive bandages from my medical kit, hobbling along on the heels with Sherlock looking down his smug little nose at me while we get ready to put his plan in action. “John,” he mutters, placing a hand on my shoulder, and I think he’s about to say something important or life-changing by the way his voice is lowered to nearly a whisper as he leans down to my ear, “please never make that awful bread again.” He kisses my cheek and I sort of…I mean, I… Well, I mean, good thing these are pretty restrictive undergarments and this dress sort of has some, uh, fluff to it. Is what I mean. And Sherlock knows that’s what I’m thinking, too, based on that that all-seeing all-knowing smirk of his he’s wearing, and it feels sort of really nice to know that he knows and…well, it feels nice to know. Myself. I guess. Sherlock looks at me with that smirk, which is really not all that different than his “let’s chase criminals smirk” but just different enough, and it promises things. Which I think is good. I think that will be…good.

And of course I won’t have to make any more awful bread after this. But my experiments weren’t all for naught; now I know he’s allergic to something in bread (or mustard). I know he draws the line at chicken doughnuts. And I can say with about 98 percent certainty, give or take 2 percent, that I’ve figured out at least one thing that Sherlock wants in his mouth.

 

***

 

**The park stretches out verdantly around me. Which is odd because I have no recollection of how I got there.** Goodness, I hope I’m not going mad already. Of course he would never say it, but I’m sure Sherlock will find me rather saddening when I’ve no longer my wits about me.

Oh, no, wait, I know why I don’t remember how I got here. It’s because the boys (really just Sherlock; poor John was as red as a beet) rather heartlessly suggested I go for a walk at the park and all but shoved me into a taxi. Well, of course it wasn’t _really_ heartless. They had their reasons. Still, it was all a bit sudden for me and I’m so easily flustered these days.

You know how Sherlock gets when he’s impatient, though, so I hurried along and followed his suggestion. I could see straight away that there was something going on, and it didn’t take long to tell what, either, let me tell you. (I think I’ll keep this little secret from Mrs. Turner for now and tease her with it for a while.) Sherlock was practically glowing. **It was the happiest he had felt without chemical stimulus.** I’m sure of it. I’m so happy he’s off of that stuff and onto…well, it’s not proper to say, is it? But I’ll tell you what, it’s a person, and not a drug.

It’s been quite a few hours since he pushed me out of the flat, though, I would bet. I dozed off and goodness knows how long ago that was. It was morning then and the sun is already high. I think I’ll be safe to go back to Baker Street now, or if I’m not, those boys will just have to start getting used to the fact that I live there, so if this is going to be a regular thing (I do hope so, I think it will be so good for the both of them, I just know they both wanted it from the start, you could see it in their eyes), they can’t shoo me out every time.

I get a taxi back and pay with some money Sherlock (what a gentleman) snuck into my purse. I don’t hear anything when I enter and there’s no answer to my usual little knock on the doorframe. It’s quiet. **They are out at last. But now what?**

Well, I know what. I’m sure they’ve made a mess of the place, as always. Usually they’re so fussy about me coming in and cleaning up, try to thank me with biscuits and everything (John tries so hard, but I had a bite of that bread he made earlier today, and I don’t think cooking is in his blood, poor sot) or stop me from doing it. (Sherlock doesn’t mind, of course, but John is such a sweet fellow and thinks I do it because I feel like I must.) 

Oh, this place is a mess. By the time I’ve gotten through the kitchen and sorted out the sitting room, I’ve dust bunnies all clinging to my skirt and bits from one of Sherlock’s experiments up my arm (I didn’t see it when I moved the table to clean underneath, oops, silly me). I peek into Sherlock’s room to see that the boys are both out like a light. It was only a peek, though. No harm in just a peek. 

And look at this, John, leaving this gun of his sitting about in the kitchen like it’s nothing more than a knick-knack. I pick it up and carry it with me very carefully (I _do_ know how to carry a gun, let Sherlock tell you about it sometime, he tells it best) to John’s room. Sometimes I worry about going in if I don’t know whether he’s around. **But nothing stands in my way now. I drop the shotgun onto the bed and go to get cleaned up.** I leave flat B as quietly as I can so as not to disturb the boys’ sleep. I’m sure they need it.


End file.
